Beckman: Lord of Sins (8 page)

“And those,” Beck said, “are sometimes the most difficult.” His thoughts roamed back to when Nick had hauled him bodily from Paris, and for the first time, he considered what Nick went through, having to scout every brothel and hell in a very sinful city, at a time when an unmistakably large, blond Englishman was risking his life just to be seen on the streets.

“You are kind, Haddonfield,” North said as they walked back toward the livery. “One forgets the aristocracy can produce men like you.” On that cryptic comment, he went ahead of Beck and inspected the hay piled high on the wagon.

By the time they departed, Beck was eyeing the sky, hoping the huge quantity of fodder they hauled wouldn’t get wet.

“You’re quiet,” North said as they gained the last mile.

“I think I’ve puzzled something out.” Beck steered the horses through a badly banked turn. “Who picked up and delivered the mail for Three Springs, North?”

A beat of silence, and then, “The bloody, bedamned, sodding twins, of course.” North shot a disgusted look at Beck. “I’ll bet if we checked, we’d find much of the correspondence from Lady Warne that conveyed household funds never made it into Sara’s hands.”

“And Sara’s letters detailing the extent of the needs here probably got cast aside as well, with only the more social correspondence being allowed to make it through. Your reports, by the way, are falling into the indifferent hands of Lady Warne’s secretary, who is not a man of business. But what of your correspondence?” He steered the wagon onto the Three Springs lane. “Do you get the sense it has been tampered with?”

“That is a possibility,” North said. He took the letter out of his pocket and scanned it again. “It is a distinct possibility.”

He kept his silence all the way to the stable yard, then got down and swung open the barn doors so Beck could drive the team right into the barn aisle. The men spent a hot, dusty hour pitching most of the hay up into the loft, leaving the last of it below for immediate consumption.

“Will that last us?” Beck asked as they unhitched the team.

“Depends when the grass comes in,” North said. “Turn around.” He swatted a quantity of hay from Beck’s clothing and hair, and submitted to the same service in return. Still, they were dirty and sweaty, and minute wisps of hay had insinuated themselves beneath their clothing, necessitating a bracing trip to the cistern.

When they reached the house, North disappeared up the back steps, and Beck realized the man was still preoccupied with his letter. Beck let him go without comment, knowing all too well what it was like to be at an awkward distance from family and friends.

God willing, North would find his way home more successfully than Beck had.

Sara blushed, a hot flooding of color no housekeeper ought to be blushing. “I saw both of the men today. When I was scrubbing the windows in the carriage house, they bathed in the cistern behind the barn, and God’s nightgown, Polly… Your pencil would be smoking, did you sketch what I saw.”

Polly stabbed her needle into a hoop of linen but didn’t pull the thread through. “How is Gabriel’s scar?”

Sara was too consumed with the images in her head to sit, and yet, the little parlor hardly allowed room to pace. “I don’t know if it’s the cold or the passage of time, but I thought it somewhat faded compared to last summer. In any case, it didn’t seem to inhibit his movement. But, Polly, I also saw Beck—Mr. Haddonfield. Would to God I had seen such a man as a young lady, and I would have been utterly bored with Reynard’s silk-and-lace affectations.”

She’d seen him
again
, not in the dimly lit confines of the laundry, but in the broad light of day, sunshine kissing every wet, muscular inch of him.

“Lace affectations were only part of Reynard’s charm,” Polly reminded her, setting the embroidery aside. “I don’t have to guess at Mr. Haddonfield’s appeal in the nude. He’s taller than Gabriel but more sleek, without any lack of brawn. My fingers itch to sketch him. I envy you, Sister.”

Sara shook her head, though her lips curved in recollection. “Don’t envy me. They were magnificent, the pair of them, but the sight of them will keep me up nights for many a week to come.”

“Is there anything you miss about Reynard?” Polly asked.

Sara paused in her circumnavigation of the parlor, hearing the careful delicacy of the question—delicacy they should have been long past.

“Not one thing. He was not a good man, Polly, and his dying when Allie was young was divine justice.”

“I suppose.” Polly considered the hoop that had been set aside. The beginnings of a Tree of Life sprouted up in soft greens and muted golds, and a peacock strutted about its base. “It’s good you can say that, good you can be that honest.”

Sara kept her gaze on Polly’s domestic artistry. “Do you miss him?” An even more delicate question.

“I used to. I never understood exactly what he was up to, Sara, and he was always kind to me, as long as I behaved, that is. But then I see that Allie is almost ten, and I realize I was fourteen when Reynard came to St. Albans—I thought I was so grown up then, as all little girls do, but I was a child. He exploited a child, and that child was me. So no, I don’t miss him.”

“I miss things I thought I could have had with him,” Sara said softly. This realization was… sad enough that Sara took a seat in her rocker.

“Could you be any more tentative?” Polly’s smile was sad too. “Things you thought you could have had?”

“Dreams,” Sara said. “When he proposed, I had dreams for a happy marriage. When he talked of travel on the Continent, and touring, I had dreams of artistic recognition, of making some contribution to music. When we bought the villa in Italy, I still at least dreamed of good things for my sister. Despite all the hardship and travel, and… all of it”—even in this extraordinary conversation, Sara could not be more specific—“I dreamed, Polly. Now I fret.”

“What do you fret about, Sara?”

“I fret about Allie. I fret whether we’re doing the right thing for her. Beckman complimented Allie’s talent, and I almost took his head off. I fret Lady Warne will die, and we’ll be begging for crusts or worse. Allie is so pretty…”

“You can’t think like that,” Polly rejoined earnestly. “We can go back to St. Albans, pride be damned, Sara. Mama and Papa would provide something for Allie, at the least. We both have trades, and we’d have characters. Beckman sees clearly what we’ve been up against, and he’d make provision for us in any case. An earl’s son knows people, and I’ve a little put by. We’d manage, Sara. We would.”

“We always have.” Barely and badly, sometimes not even speaking to each other, but they had. “Mr. Haddonfield assured me he’d find something for us, but he’s a man, Polly, and here on some sort of lark or familial obligation. He could be gone tomorrow. We can’t rely on his word.”

“We might have to,” Polly said, “though for the present, I’d say things are improving. North is certainly more sociable with another man shouldering some of the load, and Allie seems to like having more company as well. Can you believe the twins were pilfering our household money?”

“Yes, I can believe it. What I can’t believe is none of us guessed it.”

“Just as he spotted that problem,” Polly went on, “I think Mr. Haddonfield can bring a fresh eye to the whole undertaking here. North works like a demon, but it’s as if he’s already too tired to see the larger perspective.”

Sara did not ask if Polly’s interest in the man was part of that larger perspective. She did not have to. “He does have a weariness about him. I fear I’ve acquired it too.”

“Then, Sister”—Polly picked up her hoop and frowned thoughtfully at the unfinished peacock—“you must allow Mr. Haddonfield to bring you a fresh perspective as well.”

“I still say he’s married.” Any man that fine looking had to have been dogged with opportunities to marry. “He’s just too… canny, too at ease with females in the kitchen and the laundry and the still room.”

Polly stabbed the thread through the fabric. “If he’s so married, then why hasn’t his wife written to him? Why hasn’t he written to her? Why doesn’t he wear a ring? Why doesn’t he get a faraway, missing-his-wife look on his face when he lingers over his last cup of tea? Why does he watch your fundament at every turn, and why, when I heard North telling him of the boarding house in the village that caters to men, did I hear Haddonfield disdaining to know of it?”

“Polonaise Hunt, you are a naughty, naughty girl—for eavesdropping so, and for not telling your only sister sooner.”

***

“I want to show you something, Mr. Haddonfield.” Sara’s tone made it plain, if the crisp
Mr.
Haddonfield
did not, that she wasn’t going to show him how much she’d missed him that day. “Come along, we haven’t much light left.”

Beck ignored the glance exchanged between Polly and North, ignored everything except Sara, rising from the table and moving off to the back hallway.

“Polly, my thanks for an excellent meal.” The compliment was sincere. That he’d again beaten North to expressing his appreciation for Polly’s cooking was no little satisfaction.

“Where are we going?” Beck asked as Sara held his coat out for him.

“A short walk. I won’t keep you long.”

Pity, that. When she would have swished off ahead of him across the yard, Beck instead captured her hand and put it on his sleeve. “I’m not in any hurry, and I think Polly and North might appreciate a few minutes’ privacy.”

North might also kill him for it, but men were fools where true love was concerned. This truth might not be universal, but in Beck’s experience, it was at least international.

Sara’s steps slowed. “Do you think so? I used to be able to read my sister like a simple etude—you look at the melody on paper and you can hear it in your head and feel it in your fingers and your bowing arm. Now I must interpret her cooking spices and her silences.”

“While I interpret your caps and the way your skirts whip and swish as you rampage through the house.” They reached the end of the garden, and Sara kept moving Beck away from the house. “I’m glad you’re not avoiding me, Sara. Did I offend last night?”

He wasn’t going to mention her lack of cap. He was instead going to hope that if he had offended, he’d also disappointed a bit too, when he’d chosen to limit his offenses.

“You did… not offend. I’m a widow, not some pampered lady.”

She was taking him in the direction of the trees that formed the hedgerow of the home wood, a dark, tangled mess sporting two decades of deadfall and windfall.

“I’m told widowhood can be lonely.” God knew, being a widower was lonely. “That it can feel like an ongoing wound, an indignity, not just a loss. I’ve wondered why you and Polly use the same last name.”

And yet if she was lonely, like him, she hadn’t remarried.

“Lonely is a good word, an honest word, but I don’t think you mean lonely, exactly.”

“Where are you taking me, Sara?” Because she was leading him down a declivity, such that the house had disappeared from view.

“To the springs.”

“One suspected a property named Three Springs might boast some of same.” He switched his grip on her as they approached the trees, linking his fingers with hers. They circled around the side of a medium-sized pond and traveled a little ways into the woods along the stream feeding the pond.

“Hot springs?” Beck guessed. Steam rose from the water in the deepening twilight, creating a land-of-the-faery quality. He took a whiff of the air. “And not sulfurous. Shall we sit a moment?”

Because hot springs were worth noting, but they weren’t the reason she’d dragged him away from home on an increasingly chilly night, nor why she’d dodged his question about her surname.

“We can’t sit for long. It will be dark in just a few minutes.”

Dark enough for kissing? As a very young man, Beck had cadged a tumble or two under the stars, but always with the benefit of a blanket and some congenial weather. Then too, Sara was giving off not a single hint she intended to tumble him.

Which ought to have occasioned more disappointment than it did. If Beck coaxed Sara Hunt into intimacies, he’d be using sex with her as an antidote to lust and something else—grief, maybe. That she would use him wasn’t the comfort it ought to have been.

“There’s a bench.” She tugged him over to a rude plank and arranged her skirts while Beck came down beside her. “You should have Gabriel bring you here. His back gets to bothering him, and he’s too stubborn to find what relief he might.”

Beck took her hand as an experiment in modest comforts. Sara’s weight settled against his side, perhaps her own version of an experiment.

“This is a pretty spot, Sara. Thank you for showing it to me.”

The location was peaceful and attractive, not just to the eye but also the ear, graced as it was with the sound of gently flowing water.

“I resumed the use of my maiden name because I wanted to forget most of what transpired while I was married. I wore my caps because it was appropriate to my station.”

Beck looped an arm around her shoulders—the evening was chilly, and the sun was all but gone. “You wore your caps because they meant you had a kind of privacy, but housekeeping is an occupation, not the sum total of who you are.”

The longer she remained silent, the more Beck pondered the rightness of his words. She was Polly’s sister, somebody’s daughter, Allie’s mother, and much more that he could only guess at but was sure of too, somehow.

The first star winked into view on the western horizon.

“I am not just a housekeeper, Beckman, and Three Springs is not just a list of purchases and tasks. It has beauty and dignity and value—also hot springs some people would find a very valuable addition to their holdings. Most people.”

Another star winked into view against the darkening sky. Beckman rose and offered Sara his hand, which she took. As they strolled back in the direction of the house, he admitted that making love with Sara Hunt—who also had beauty and dignity and value—might be about more than loneliness and lust after all.

***

“I love that sound,” Beck said as North set a mug of hot tea down before him.

“What sound?” North sat across from him at the kitchen table and shuffled a deck of cards.

“If you’re quiet,” Beck said, “you can hear the murmur of the women’s voices in their apartment. They’re discussing the day, trading opinions, making plans for tomorrow, and so on. It’s the same cadence and rhythm in any language.”

And it put him in mind of the music of the stream by the springs.

“You notice odd things. Prepare to be defeated.”

“I notice you’re still disconcerted by today’s letter,” Beck said. “One hopes you’ll be able to concentrate on the game.”

“With your witty repartee to distract me,” North drawled, “the matter is in question.” He played carefully but made the occasional chancy decision, and they were evenly matched halfway around the cribbage board.

Beck moved his pegs. “I have a question for you.”

“You always put your fives in the other fellow’s crib,” North said, which was fine advice provided a man wanted to lose badly.

“Earlier today, you said Polly spoke six languages and had been to every capital in Europe. Were you speaking literally?”

North appeared to consider his cards. “Sara, as well. I don’t think Allie was much more than an infant when they returned to England to visit. Why?”

“So Sara speaks all those languages? Sara’s been to all those exotic places?”

“She has.” North tossed down a card. “If what Polly says is true, Sara was touring.”

“Touring?” Beck glanced over his cards. “As in being a tourist, seeing the sights?”

“That too.” North waited for Beck to play a card. “Sara has musical talent, as a violinist. She performed all over Europe. The Continentals aren’t as stuffy about women on stage as we are.”

Beck set his cards down as a curious prickling sensation ran from his nape to his fingers. “She was
that
good
, and she’s spending her days washing the lamps and polishing the silver?”

“I believe it was her choice,” North said. “She has a child, if you’ll recall, and that effectively ends a career before the public, even on the Continent. Or it should, in the minds of most.”

“Why isn’t she at least giving lessons? This place… you don’t keep house at a place like this if you have other options.”

“Beckman”—North’s voice took on that patient, long-suffering quality—“we all have other options. You, for example, could be with your brother, flirting and gaming your way across London during the Season, but you’re bathing in cisterns and mucking stalls here at Three Springs.”

“Valid point.” And while he did want to be at Belle Maison, Beck did not want to be racketing around the vice-ridden terrain of Mayfair in spring. “You’re impersonating a land steward, and Polly—who I assume is a talented artist—is impersonating a cook.”